With a sudden gesture, she took from her bosom a worn paper, and unfolding it, held before the other’s eyes the marriage record of Allan Douglas and Virginie Varens.
Not a word passed Diana’s lips, but with the moan of a broken heart she covered up her face, and slowly, tremulously, the voice at her side went on, “You see here the date of that mysterious journey to Paris, from which he returned an altered man. There, too, is his private seal. That long lock of hair, that stained slipper, belonged to Virginie; and though he said he had never seen her, the lie cost him an effort, and well it might, for I sat there before him, and I am Virginie.”
Diana’s hands dropped from her pallid face, as she shrank away from her companion, yet gazed at her like one fascinated by an awful spell.
“Hear my story, and then judge between us,” the voice continued, so melancholy, yet so sweet that tears came to the listener’s eyes, as the sad story was unfolded. “I am of a noble family, but was left so poor, so friendless, that but for a generous boy I should have perished in the streets of Paris. He was a dancer, his poor earnings could not support us both. I discovered this, and in my innocence, thought no labor degrading that lessened my great debt to him. I, too, had become a dancer. I had youth, beauty, health, and a grateful heart to help me on. I made money. I had many lovers, but Victor kept me safe, for he, too, loved, but in secret, till he was sure I could give him love, not gratitude. Then Allan came, and I forgot the world about me; for I loved as only a girl of seventeen can love the first man who has touched her heart. He offered me his hand and honorable name, for I was as wellborn as himself, and even in my seeming degradation, he respected me. We were married, and for a year I was as happy as an angel. Then my boy was born, and for a time I lost my beauty. That cooled Allan’s waning passion. Some fear of consequences, some later regret for his rash act, came over him, and made him very bitter to me when I most needed tenderness. He told me that our marriage had been without witnesses, that our faith was different, and that vows pronounced before a Catholic priest alone were not binding upon him. That he was weary of me, and having been recalled to Scotland, he desired to return as free as he went. If I would promise solemnly to conceal the truth, he would support the boy and me abroad, until I chose to marry; that I must destroy the record of the deed, and never claim him, or he would denounce me as an impostor, and take away the boy. Miss Stuart, I was very ignorant and young; my heart was broken, and I believed myself dying. For the child’s sake, I promised all things, and he left me; but remorse haunted him, and his peace was poisoned from that hour.”
“And you? You married Colonel Vane?” whispered Diana, holding her breath to listen.
“No, I have never married, for in my eyes that ceremony made me Allan’s wife, and I shall be so till I die. When I was most forlorn, Colonel Vane found me. He was Allan’s friend; he had seen me with him, and when we met again, he pitied me; and finding that I longed to hide myself from the world, he took me to India under an assumed name, as the widow of a friend. My boy went with me, and for a time I was as happy as a desolate creature could be. Colonel Vane desired to marry me; for, though I kept my promise, he suspected that I had been deceived and cruelly deserted, and longed to atone for his friend’s perfidy by his own devotion. I would not marry him; but when he was dying, he begged me to take his name as a shield against a curious world, to take his fortune, and give my son the memory of a father when his own had cast him off. I did so; and no one knew me there except under my false name. It was believed that I had married him too soon after my husband’s death to care to own it at once, and when I came to England, no one denied me the place I chose to fill.”
“Oh, why did you come?” cried Diana, with a tearless sob.
“I came because I longed to know if Allan had forgotten me, if he had married, and left his poor boy fatherless. I saw him last winter, saw that you loved him, feared that he would love you, and when I learned that both were coming here, I resolved to follow. It was evident that Allan had not forgotten me, that he had suffered as well as I; and perhaps if he could bring himself to brave the pity, curiosity, and criticism of the world, he might yet atone for his deceit, and make me happy. We had met in London; he had told me to remember my vow; had confessed that he still loved me, but dared not displease his haughty family by owning me; had seen his boy, and reiterated his promise to provide for us as long as we were silent. I saw him no more till we met here, and this explains all that has seemed so strange to you. It was I who entered his room, but not to juggle with the ring. He invented that tale to account for the oiled lock, and whatever stir might have been overheard, I went to implore him to pause before he pledged himself to you. He would not yield, having gone too far to retract with honor, he said. Then I was in despair; for well I knew that if ever the knowledge of this passage in his life should come to you, you would feel as I feel, and regard that first marriage as sacred in God’s eye, whatever the world might say. I gave him one more opportunity to spare you by the warning I whispered in the park. That has delayed the wrong, but you would have yielded had not other things roused suspicion of me. I had decided to say no more, but let you two tangle your fates as you would. Your appeal this morning conquered me, and I have broken every vow, dared every danger, to serve and save you. Have I done all this in vain?”
“No; let me think, let me understand—then I will act.”
For many minutes they rolled on silently, two pale, stern-faced women, sitting side by side looking out before them, with fixed eyes that saw nothing but a hard task performed, a still harder one yet to be done. Diana spoke first, asking, “Do you intend to proclaim your wrong, and force your husband to do you justice?”
“No, I shall not ask that of him again, but I shall do my best to prevent any other woman from blindly sacrificing her happiness by marrying him, unconscious of my claim. For the boy’s sake I have a right to do this.”
“You have. I thank you for sparing me the affliction of discovering that man’s perfidy too late. Where is your boy, Mrs. Douglas?”
Steadily she spoke; and when her lips pronounced the name she had hoped to make her own, a stern smile passed across her white face, and left a darker shadow behind. Mrs. Vane touched her lips with a warning gesture, saying pitifully, yet commandingly: “Never call me that until he gives me the right to bear it openly. You ask for my boy; will you come and see him? He is close by; I cannot be parted from him long, yet must conceal him, for the likeness to his father would betray him at once, if we were seen together.”
Turning down a grassy lane, Mrs. Vane drove on till the way became too narrow for the carriage. Here they alighted, and climbing a wooded path, came to a lonely cottage in a dell.
“My faithful Jitomar found this safe nook for me, and brings me tidings of my darling every day,” whispered Mrs. Vane, as she stole along the path that wound round the house.
Turning a sharp corner, a green, lawnlike bit of ground appeared. On a vine-covered seat sat an old French bonne, knitting as she nodded in the sun. But Diana saw nothing but a little figure tossing buttercups into the air, and catching them as they fell with peals of childish laughter. A three-year-old boy it was, with black curls blowing round a bold bright face, where a healthful color glowed through the dark skin, and brilliant eyes sparkled under a brow so like that other that she could not doubt that this was Allan’s son. Just then the boy spied his mother, and with a cry of joy ran to her, to be gathered close, and covered with caresses.
There was no acting here, for genuine mother love transformed Mrs. Vane from her usual inexplicable self into a simple woman, whose heart was bound up in the little creature whom she loved with the passionate fondness of an otherwise cold and superficial nature.
Waving off the old bonne when she would have approached, Mrs. Vane turned to Diana, asking, “Are you satisfied?”
“Heaven help me, yes!”
“Is he not like his father? See, the very shape of his small hands, the same curve to his
baby mouth. Stay, you shall hear him speak. Darling, who am I?”
“Mamma, my dear mamma,” replied the little voice.
“And who is this?” asked Mrs. Vane, showing a miniature of Douglas.
“Oh, Papa! When will he come again?”
“God only knows, my poor baby. Now kiss Mamma, and go and make a pretty daisy chain against I come next time. See, love, here are bonbons and new toys; show them to Babette. Quick, let us slip away, Miss Stuart.”
As the boy ran to his nurse the ladies vanished, and in silence regained the carriage. Only one question and answer passed between them, as they drove rapidly homeward.
“Diana, what will you do?”
“Go tomorrow, and in silence. It is all over between us, forever. Mrs. Vane, I envy you, I thank you, and I could almost hate you for the kind yet cruel deed you have done this day.”
A gloomy darkness settled down on her altered face; despair sat in her eyes, and death itself could not have stricken hope, energy, and vitality out of it more utterly than the bitter truth which she had wrung from her companion.
George Lennox and Douglas were waiting at the door, and both ran down to help them alight. Diana dragged her veil over her face, while Mrs. Vane assumed an anxious, troubled air as the carriage stopped, and both gentlemen offered a hand to Miss Stuart. Putting Earls aside with what seemed almost rude repugnance, she took Georges arm, hurried up the steps, and as her foot touched the threshold of the door, she fell heavily forward in a swoon.
Douglas was springing toward her, when a strong grasp detained him, and Mrs. Vane whispered, as she clung to his arm tremblingly, “Do not touch her; she must not see you; it will kill her.”
“Good heavens! What is the cause of this?” he asked, as Lennox carried Diana in, and help came flocking at his call.
“O Mr. Douglas, I have had an awful drive! She terrified me so by her wild conversation, her fierce threats of taking her own life, that I drove home in agony. You saw how she repulsed you, and rushed away to drop exhausted in the hall; imagine what it all means, and spare me the pain of telling you.”
She spoke breathlessly, and glanced nervously about her, as if still in fear. Earl listened, half bewilderingly at first, then, as her meaning broke upon him, his dark cheek whitened, and he looked aghast.
“You do not mean that she is mad?” he whispered, recalling her fierce gesture, and the moody silence she had preserved for days.
“No, oh, no, I dare not say that yet; but I fear that her mind is unsettled by long brooding over one unhappy thought, and that the hereditary taint may be upon the point of showing itself. Poor girl!”
“Am I the cause of this outbreak? Is our disagreement the unhappy thought that has warped her reason? What shall I, what ought I to do?” Earl asked in great distress, as Diana's senseless body was carried up the stairs, and her aunt stood wringing her hands, while Lady Lennox dispatched a servant for medical help.
“Do nothing but avoid her, for she says your presence tortures her. She will go tomorrow. Let her leave quietly, and when absence has restored her, take any steps toward a reconciliation that you think best. Now I must go to her; do not repeat what I have said. It escaped me in my agitation, and may do her harm if she learns that her strange behavior is known.”
Pressing his hand with a sympathizing glance, Mrs. Vane hurried in, and for an hour busied herself about Diana so skillfully that the physician sent all the rest away and gave directions to her alone. When recovered from her faint, Diana lay like one dead, refusing to speak or move, yet taking obediently whatever Mrs. Vane offered her, as if a mutual sorrow linked them together with a secret bond. At dusk she seemed to fall asleep, and leaving Gabrielle to watch beside her, Mrs. Vane went down to join the others at a quiet meal.
Chapter VI
A DARK DEATH
THE party separated early. Diana was still sleeping, and leaving her own maid to watch in the dressing room between their chambers, Mrs. Berkeley went to bed. As he passed them down the gallery to his apartment, Earl heard Mrs. Vane say to the maid, “If anything happens in the night, call me.” The words made him anxious, and instead of going to bed, he sat up writing letters till very late. It was past midnight when the sound of a closing door broke the long silence that had filled the house. Stepping into the gallery, he listened. All was still, and nothing stirred but the heavy curtain before the long window at the end of the upper hall; this swayed to and fro in the strong current of air that swept in. Fearing that the draft might slam other doors and disturb Diana, he went to close it.
Pausing a moment to view the gloomy scene without, Douglas was startled by an arm flung violently about his neck, lips pressed passionately to his own, and a momentary glimpse of a woman’s figure dimly defined on the dark curtain that floated backward from his hand. Silently and suddenly as it came, the phantom went, leaving Douglas so amazed that for an instant he could only stare dumbly before him, half breathless, and wholly bewildered by the ardor of that mysterious embrace. Then he sprang forward to discover who the woman was and whither she had gone. But, as if blown outward by some counterdraft, the heavy curtain wrapped him in its fold, and when he had freed himself, neither ghost nor woman was visible.
Earl was superstitious, and for a moment he fancied the spirit of Diana had appeared to him, foretelling her death. But a second thought assured him that it was a human creature, and no wraith, for the soft arms had no deathly chill in them, the lips were warm, living breath had passed across his face, and on his cheek he felt a tear that must have fallen from human eyes. The light had been too dim to reveal the partially shrouded countenance, or more than a tall and shadowy outline, but with a thrill of fear he thought, “It was Diana, and she is mad!” Taking his candle, he hurried to the door of the dressing room, tapped softly, and when the sleepy maid appeared, inquired if Miss Stuart still slept.
“Yes, sir, like a child, it does one’s heart good to see her.”
“You are quite sure she is asleep?”
“Bless me, yes, sir, I’ve just looked at her, and she hasn’t stirred since I looked an hour ago.”
“Does she ever walk in her sleep, Mrs. Mason?”
“Dear, no, sir.”
“I thought I saw her just now in the upper gallery. I went to shut the great window, lest the wind should disturb her, and someone very like her certainly stood for a moment at my side.”
“Lord, sir! You make my blood run cold. It couldn’t have been her, for she never left her bed, much less her room.”
“Perhaps so; never mind; just look again, and tell me if you see her, then I shall be at ease.”
Mrs. Mason knew that her young lady loved the gentleman before her, and never doubted that he loved her, and so considering his anxiety quite natural and proper, she nodded, crept away, and soon returned, saying, with a satisfied air, “She’s all right, sir, sleeping beautifully. I didn’t speak, for once when I looked at her, she said, quite fierce, ‘Go away, and let me be until I call you.’ So I’ve only peeped through the curtain since. I see her lying with her face to the wall, and the coverlet drawn comfortably round her.”
“Thank God! She is safe. Excuse my disturbing you, Mrs. Mason, but I was very anxious. Be patient and faithful in your care of her; I shall remember it. Good night.”
“Handsome creeter; how fond he is of her, and well he may be, for she dotes on him, and they’ll make a splendid couple. Now I’ll finish my nap, and then have a cup of tea.”
With a knowing look and a chilly shiver, Mrs. Mason resettled herself in a luxurious chair, and was soon dozing.
Douglas meanwhile returned to his room, after a survey of the house, and went to bed, thinking with a smile and frown that if all spirits came in such an amicable fashion, the fate of a ghost seer was not a hard one.
In the dark hour just before the dawn, a long shrill cry rent the silence, and brought every sleeper under that roof out of his bed, trembling and with fright. The cry came from Diana’s room, and in a
moment the gallery, dressing room, and chamber were filled with pale faces and half-dressed figures, as ladies and gentlemen, men and maids came flocking in, asking breathlessly, “What is it? Oh, what is it?”
Mrs. Berkeley lay on the floor in strong hysterics, and Mrs. Mason, instead of attending to her, was beating her hands distractedly together, and running wildly about the room, as if searching for something she had lost. Diana’s bed was empty, with the clothes flung one way and the pillows another, and every sign of strange disorder, but its occupant was nowhere to be seen.
“Where is she?”
“What has happened?”
“Why don’t you speak?” cried the terrified beholders.
A sudden lull fell upon the excited group, as Mrs. Vane, white, resolute, and calm, made her way through the crowd, and laying her hand on Mrs. Mason’s shoulder, commanded her to stand still and explain the mystery. The poor soul endeavored to obey, but burst into tears, and dropping on her knees, poured out her story in a passion of penitent despair.
“You left her sleeping, ma’am, and I sat as my lady bid me, going now and then to look at Miss. The last time I drew the curtain, she looked up and said, sharp and short, ‘Let me be in peace, and don’t disturb me till I call you.’ After that, I just peeped through the crack, and she seemed quiet. You know I told you so, sir, when you came to ask, and oh, my goodness me, it wasn’t her at all, sir, and she’s gone! She’s gone!”
“Hush! Stop sobbing, and tell me how you missed her. Gabrielle and Justine, attend to Mrs. Berkeley; Harry, go at once and search the house. Now, Mrs. Mason.”
Mrs. Vane’s clear, calm voice seemed to act like a spell on the agitation of all about her, and the maids obeyed; Harry, with the men- servants, hurried away, and Mrs. Mason more coherently went on:
“Well, ma’am, when Mr. Douglas came to the door asking if Miss was here, thinking he saw her in the hall, I looked again, and thought she lay as I’d left her an hour before. But oh, ma’am, it wasn’t her, it was the pillow that she’d fixed like herself, with the coverlet pulled round it, like she’d pulled it round her own head and shoulders when she spoke last. It looked all right, the night lamp being low, and me so sleepy, and I went back to my place, after setting Mr. Douglas’s mind at rest. I fell asleep, and when I woke, I ran in here to make sure she was safe, for I'd had a horrid dream about seeing her laid out, dead and dripping, with weeds in her hair, and her poor feet all covered with red clay, as if she’d fallen into one of them pits over yonder. I ran in here, pulled up the curtain, and was just going to say, ‘Thank the Lord,’ when, as I stooped down to listen if she slept easy, I saw she wasn’t there. The start took my wits away, and I don’t know what I did, till my lady came running in, as I was tossing the pillows here and there to find her, and when I told what had happened, my lady gave one dreadful scream, and went off in a fit.”
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